


Bath Time With Arthur: The Sequel

by Nordic_Breeze



Series: The Outlaw and the Girl Next Door [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Feels, Awkward Conversations, Cuddling, F/M, Flirting, Forehead Kisses, French Kissing, Hand Jobs, Naked Male Clothed Female, Reader-Insert, Seduction, Sequel, Sexual Tension, Smut, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-14 15:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze
Summary: A direct sequel to Bath The With Arthur - obviously. A few weeks has passed by when Arthur Morgan returns to the hostel where you work as a deluxe bath girl, and once again you find youself drawn to this alluring stranger with the mesmerizing eyes. However, will the firearms he is carrying frighten you or enthrall you?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you so much to everyone who commented on Bath Time With Arthur, and everyone who showed interest in a possible sequel or alternate versions. I am so grateful for and humbled by your praise of and interest in my work. 
> 
> After playing around with possible scenarios and outcomes, here is the brainchild of my imagination with the absolute ingenious title - The Sequel. Titles are hard! I want the first Bath Time story to be a standalone one, and I'd also like the possibility of writing alternate scenarios to both, therefore I'm making this into a series as opposed to one multi-chapter story. Without further ado, on with the show.

_The unmistakable sound of heavy rain, tranquil and lulling – until you’re forced to step outside that is, promptly goes from muffled to piercing as the door to the local guesthouse swings open, making the clerk shift his attention from the guest book to the brawny man entering the establishment. The only visible part of his face under the black leather hat is an unshaven jawline, but the clerk nonetheless recognizes the stranger immediately. He tenses up. Partly because the hostel’s full tonight and he’s in no position to accommodate a drop-in visitor, but mostly due to the firearms around the stranger’s waist, combined with the black kerchief draped around his neck._

_“Evnin’.”_

_“Good evening, Sir. Nice to see you again.”_

_“I’m in need of a wash. Can you arrange?_

_“A bath? Were you not here just- eh, I-I deeply apologize for my crude and ill-mannered candor, Sir. I can assure you this is not how I-“_

_“Is all rite, mister. I was passin’ thru when it started rainin’ like a goddamn dam broke upstairs and both me’n my horse was gettin’ chills. I just thought a hot bath would be nice.”_

_The stranger’s conduct and way of speaking, although polite comes off as somewhat coarse, a striking contrast to the genteel and well-articulated man behind the counter. Despite his grim appearance, he’s always been civil, however in this day and age, one can never take such for granted, especially when it comes to men looking like him. So it is not without a hint of apprehension that the hostel clerk responds, “Certainly, Sir. We, um, have a full house tonight so I am afraid most of our staff are dutifully engaged but I am certain we can arrange something for a returning customer.”_

_“Thanks. Is, um, Miss <y/n> available?”_

_The receptionist does his best to hide his surprise. Though the request for a specific girl is not common it’s certainly not unheard of either, tough commonly proposed by regulars only. It wasn’t the first time this particular fella had swung by, but he’s not solicited the hostel’s services frequent or often enough that a bond with any of the girls would be deemed expected or even reasonable, especially a girl that has been working for the establishment not even three full months. Surely, he must know her from somewhere separate from this, he muses to himself._

_“I shall go and check, Sir. Whom may I say is asking?”_

_A sudden wave of self-consciousness has the stranger seriously consider excusing himself and leave. A sudden flare of lightning illuminates the small and dimly lit reception, making him hesitant to go outside. The flash is soon followed by rumbles, low at first then without warning grows deafeningly loud, as if mother nature herself is telling him to stay. Moreover, his faithful stallion, which he’d been fortunate enough to stable has served him well the last few days and he both needs and deserves a rest. And he has been thinking about you. More than he cares to admit. After days of thinking back and forth about returning in hopes of seeing you again, he ain't about to back out now._

_“Sir?”_

_“Uh, Arthur Morgan.”_

_“Very well. I will be right back, Sir.”_

_Though he didn’t even make it past the counter before you found him instead._

~*~

“Mister Robins! The Vanderhorns would like to see you. Something about the drawers in their room not opening.”

You deliver the message to the clerk that you got from the chambermaid whom in turn had received the complaint from a couple currently staying at the guesthouse. Too preoccupied with pondering why Mr. Robins seems to be so pleased to hear of this inconvenience, from one of the hostel’s most faithful regulars nonetheless, you take note of but do not glance at the man beside you.

“Ah, Miss <y/n>, just the person I was looking for. A Mister Morgan here has ordered a bath and asked for you explicitly. If you are not otherwise engaged, could you be so kind as to offer this gentleman your assistance?”

The sound of Mr. Morgan’s name makes your heart jitter. You've been thinking of him every day since that day, and just as you had convinced yourself any hope of seeing him again was lost, here he is. Right next to you. You eye the man beside you demurely. Fully clothed and his face concealed by a broad-brimmed hat, you had not recognized him at all.

“Mr. Morgan! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!” you blurt out followed by instant mortification on your end and an astounded Mr. Robins. “I mean eh, this came out all wrong.”

Removing his hat, a pair of familiar teal eyes meet yours. He looks to be about as flushed as you.

“Miss, <y/n>. Nice seein’ you again.”

Great. You have not even entered the bath house and you’re already a flustering mess. A series of mutual, embarrassed mumbling ensues, followed by equally awkward apologies and heartfelt, but no less gawky reassurances. Standing upright, you fully realize how large he is of a man, over a head taller than you and nearly twice your size. Your eyes glide over his figure as you stumble through the mutual courtesies. A gun belt packed with ammunition and two holsters carrying handheld firearms, one of them a six-shooter catch your attention. A bandolier is draped over his chest, littered with bullet casings like pearls on a string. A black neckerchief. Bandana you believe they are also called.

“Miss? _Miss?_ ”

“Sorry? Eh, my apologies, Sir.”

“Would you be so kind as to notify the kitchen personnel to prepare the bath whilst I assist the Vanderhorns?”

“No of course- yes, I-I would be happy to service, I mean assist, Sir.”

Mr. Robins shifts his attention to Arthur, excusing himself. “There is much to do tonight Sir, and I am afraid I must attend to other pressing matters at once.”

“I understand.”

With the receptionist gone a pressing silence ensues. You are torn between attempting to ease the tension, or casually ignore it.

“I, eh, leave you to get undr- eh, ready.”

As you pass him by on your way to kitchen, you take note of a third holster on his back, stowing a large knife. You’re hit with a sudden feel of apprehension, accompanied by irrational but nevertheless alluring exhilaration. Could he be - dangerous? Two consecutive, rapid flares fleetingly light up the murky hallway followed by instant rumbles, as if to validate your suspicions.

_Get yourself together, <y/n>. It’s just your imagination running wild._

On your way from the kitchen to the bath house you swing by the bodega for a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a red wine you’ve heard is popular amongst whiskey lovers. On your way to the bath house, you stop by the hallway mirror to loosen your hair and pull at your top garment. No, too revealing. You adjust and re-adjust your chemise and hair, letting your loosened locks flow down your chest. No, too obvious. You tuck your hair behind your back and move your head so that your hair float naturally around your shoulders.

You enter the bath with a smile that shows in your eyes as much as on your lips. A genuine, non-courteous smile, which Arthur returns. The sweet, alluring tingles shooting through you all the way to your fingernails visibly shows in your face and gives your complexion a radiant, healthy glow. The apprehension you’d felt moments ago is now all gone and you don’t even try to hide how happy you are to see him again.

“Hey there. Thanks for asking for me.”

“Ma’am. Thank you for acceptin’. I hope I wasn’t makin’ you uncomfortable back there.”

“Pretty sure I did a good job at embarrassing the both of us,” you say with an awkward chortle before your voice takes on a deeper tone. “I’ve been hoping you'd come back. I really mean that.”

He skinks into the water as you start washing his hair. The occasional flicker and rumble from the thunderstorm outside add to the already electric atmosphere, sending sweet shivers through you that gives you these feelgood goosebumps. You work on his hair and shoulders in silence, letting him doze off from the comfort of the hot water and your touch all while indulging in the guilty pleasure of casting longing gazes at his gorgeous features.

“What've you been doing since last time?” you ask, breaking the silence as you shift position to scrub his left side. He talks about hunting and fishing, assisting friends in need of a helping hand, taking on the odd job here and there, thought never going into detail as to the nature of said jobs. 

His oftentimes vague replies, in combination with the odd comment on how he seemingly is never able to catch a break, and how these last few months has been the toughest in his life, but avoiding to elaborate why, you can’t help but to picture a man on the run. Circling around the water-filled vessel to care to his right side, you shift your attention to the garments and gears strewn over a chair in the corner. That strange mix of thrill and trepidation returning, you dig your fingers into his muscles. You are tempted to casually drop a flippant remark about robbing banks for a living, but the very real possibility he might actually be doing exactly that has you opt for a safer observational comment.

“That is quite a lot of firepower you’re carrying,” you observe, nodding towards the chair holding his possessions. “Are you a bounty hunter?”

He hesitates, audibly inhaling, as if struggling to come up with an answer that is neither a lie nor the direct truth. “Sometimes,” he mutters, dragging out the last syllable. His eyes are fixed on his garments. Yours are fixed on him. “Most of the time, I’m the hunted.”

You manage to hide your astonishment save for a raised brow.

“Really?”

Despite your suspicions, - that was unexpected. But you are honestly not sure whether your hammering heart is due to excite or apprehension.

“Th’was just a misunderstanding,” he deflects. “I eh, meant - Bears! I go huntin’ for moose’r rabbit in bear territory’n before I know it, I’m the hunted.”

_Uh-huh._

“But enough ‘bout me,” he digress before you can enquire further. “What’s you been up to? Any closer to that university dream of youse?”

“Actually I am,” you respond with prompt glee. “My pa just inherited from a late uncle and was kind enough to pay for my tuition and such for a whole year! I be leaving for Saint Denis next week.”

There is a hint of disappointment in his face, hidden behind an encouraging smile telling you that he is genuinely happy for you.

“He sounds like a good man.”

“He is.”

“You lookin’ forward to it?”

“Most certainly. Not to leave my pa, or my homeplace. But this has been a dream of mine ever since I learned how to read. And I do have family in Saint Denis so I won’t be all alone.”

“Well, good luck to ya. I’mma miss ya‘round here.”

You divert your gaze with a coy smile. “Thank you. I will miss you too. Hey, if you’re ever in or near Saint Denis, come look for me.”

“Sure.”

Although it had felt more like a mutual exchange of courtesies rather than an actual promise of a future rendezvous, you let yourself indulge in a tantalizing fantasy where you meet him again on the crowded streets of Saint Denis, which has you tingling with hope and excite. It feels, – intoxicating and you forget for a moment the more realistic scenario where this is the last time you see him. In which case– “You know what, let’s have a toast.” Without waiting for a reply, you collect the bottle and wine glass.

“I chose the wine myself, and I took care to pick one particularly catering to whiskey lovers,” you ensure, pouring the burgundy red liquid into the goblet. “And I will be more careful this time, sitting right here.”

You position yourself on your knees close to your companion, your chest at the height of the rim. You keep the glass and hand the bottle to a slightly bemused Arthur.

“Taking only small sips, like this.” You demonstrate by nibbling at the dark red liquid. He makes a toast to your future and you both take a sip. The blackcurrant aroma this wine is so famous for hits your taste buds. Your tongue shoots out and glides over your upper lip in a half-circle motion. Is that a whiff of oak, or cedar perhaps, and- pepper? Who would have thought fermented grape juice could host so many different aromas. You snigger at the tiny crinkles on Arthur’s nose as the liquid flows over his tongue.

“You like?”

“Suure.”

It comes of more like a ‘ _shoooar’_. You flick your fingers on top of the foam-coated water surface, splashing a shower of waterdrops in Arthur’s direction. A cheeky smile spreads across your lips at his surprised reaction. In your eyes there is a tantalizing blend of lust and mischief.

“Liar.”

“You ain’t got any whiskey here?”

“Sure we do, but there’s no strong liqueur allowed here.” You make a gesture as to imply the bath house. “We’re not allowed in here while under the influence of alcohol,” you remind, contradicting your words by placing the glass to your mouth for another sip, which turns into a full-on mouthful. Reddish-purple drops are trickling down your chest. Arthur’s thick brows morph into a frown.

“Careful now.”

Wiping stripes of red off your skin, you have a feeling you might break that rule tonight - just a little bit. The conversation steers to Saint Denis, and what it might be like there as none of you have been that far east before, then takes a natural shift to what the future might hold.

You now on your second glass and Arthur almost done with the bottle both of you are feeling the effects of alcohol, though neither of you are anywhere near being drunk. You suspect he may not be as intoxicated as you. Not on wine anyways. Warmth spread through you, more from Arthur’s smile than from the wine. You place your arm on the rim and rest your chin on your arm. Tilting your head, you look up at him with twinkles in your eyes, smiling from ear to ear. The left side of your bottom lip curls inward and you bite down on the plump, rosy flesh. He closes his palm over your elbow. His fingers start gliding up your arm before self-consciousness wins and he pulls away.

“Sorry, I- eh, the rules, I eh, forgot.”

“It’s all right.” You cook an alluring grin, closing your hand over his. “I don’t mind.”

His lashes sweep up and dazzling, teal-colored eyes meet yours. “You sure?”

You raise your cup. “We’ve already broken one rule today, Arthur.”

He responds with a nervous chuckle. You put the glass to your mouth but halt. Though it is tempting to go from comfortably warm and giddy to bubbly’n tipsy it’s easy to end up as uncomfortably numb instead. You return the half-filled goblet and the near empty bottle to the tray. Turning back to Arthur, you’re met with an intense stare, in his eyes a blend of longing and infatuation that makes you feel bashful all of a sudden, and you realize with a mix of coyness and arouse how openly flirtatious you’ve been. His gaze shifts from your eyes to your mouth, then finds its way up to your eyes again. His lips start moving with no sound as if working up the courage to speak.

“I, eh, _ahem_ , if I may say so, um,” he swallows hard, “yer a fine lady, Miss <y/n>. Amusing, kind and – beautiful.”

Modesty and reserve numbed by alcohol, you let your fingers glide over his taut biceps. A flattering red wash over his face, most definitely not caused by wine or the warm water. Encouraged by your touch - and a hint of intoxication no doubt, he leans forward, closing the distance between you. So do you. He gets closer. Even closer still. Now all you have to do is lift your chin just a little and crane your neck. It’s so tempting. Too tempting. Boosted by Arthur’s enthralling eyes, bashful smile and the alcohol in your blood, you lift your head. As if moving by themselves, your lips find his.

“I, eh, you don’t – we don’t h-“ his mouth mumbles against yours, flustered but making no attempt to move away or push you back.

You interrupt him by kissing him again, more decisively this time. Your palm cups the outline of his jaw as you repeatedly close your mouth over his, tasting the fruity aroma of wine mixed with the salty and musky taste of him. Your tongue glides over his bottom lip, resulting in a choked moan from the recipient.

“You can touch me if you want,” you breathe, bold and giddy but no less genuine, trailing kisses and the occasional nibble down his neck. “I’ve done my job. We’re just two people enjoying a drink together. The rules don’t apply. You can touch me wherever you like.”

Not quite true, but you don’t give two cents about rules right now. It’s just the two of you here. No one will ever know. He places one hand on your waist, gently pulling you closer. Finding and placing his lips over yours, he is the one who initiates the kiss this time, kissing you with hunger and intensity but making no attempt at taking it further. When you eventually break the kiss, you are both panting. Holding eye contact, you let go of his neck and start caressing his chest in light circles.

“I be happy to do a little extra something for you,” you whisper, cooking that alluring smile again. Arthur stiffens, not at all prepared for your generous offer. He’s not encouraging you but not stopping you either. You inch your hand lower and lean into his ear.

“Just for – you.”

Even lower still. You trace the outline of his navel, and then you unhurriedly follow that thin stripe leading down to his most private, the one part of the male body you have sworn to never touch when assisting the bath house clientele. However, Arthur is so much more than a mere client.

“I have never done this to anyone,” you say earnestly. Your fingers reach a bundle of curly hair. Arthur lets out a sudden gasp and places his arms on the rim of the tub. You’re close. You observe him carefully, looking for any twitch, expression or sound of reservation that would make you stop immediately. But what you see is best described as coy anticipation.

“Never wanted to either. Until I met you.”

Your intertwine your fingers in the miniscule corkscrews, and knead the area close to the center of his desire. Arthur grips the rim with both hands. He swallows hard, his entire face a bright red. The effect your touch has on him both amuses and arouses you. You linger at the base of his arousal.

“I want to do this for you, Arthur. Want to give you -this.” You press down a little, leaving no doubt as to what you mean by _this_. He leans forward, drops his head and close his eyes. You circle around him as near as you can without actually touching.

“May I?”

“I-“

He can barely utter a word. You lean in closer still. “May I?” you repeat, your knuckles ‘accidentally’ gliding against his shaft, making him twitch. Sweet tingles shoot through you upon feeling how hard he already is. The response is nearly inaudible, barely a whisper.

“Yes. If you w-“

The words get stuck in his throat as you close your hand around him and start stroking him, gently but decisively. Despite your unhurried strokes he twitches and groans, as if close already. You caress his wet locks with your free hand, whispering to him words of affection and praise as you knead his tip with leisurely, slow rubs. The response is instantaneous, fierce and far from displeasing to your ears. You keep the pace slow, agonizingly slow for him no doubt. You relish how the pleasure you’re giving him is written all over his striking features, and you want it glued to your memory together with the sounds he is making in response to your touch and the way his throbbing desire fills your hand. He bucks his hips, making compulsorily thrusts into your hand. _Faster._ You speed up and close your mouth around his. Your other hand finds the nape of his neck.

“Touch me, Arthur,” you breathe against his lips. “I want you to.”

His hands shoot up to your shoulders, moving to your upper back and down to your waist. He has no control over his twitching body or voice as you’re promptly bringing him closer and closer to release. You let go of his neck and use your free hand to move one of his to your breasts, rewarding him by pumping faster as he goes under your chemise to cup your breast. His other hand finds your neck and pulls you in for a heated kiss. Water is splashing everywhere, soaking both you and the floor.

“That’s it,” you pant against his mouth, slipping your tongue in between his parted lips. “Almost there. C’mon, Arthur. You’re doing so well.”

He lurches forward with a loud groan as he releases himself into the hot water. You keep stroking him, milking every last bit of pleasure you can give him until he drops his hands back onto the rim. His head falls back, afterglow bliss painted on his face as he looks at you with sleepy eyes brimming with gratitude, awe and esteem.

You have never seen a more beautiful man.

“Thank you,” he mouths.

You wipe away strands of hair sticking to his glistening forehead, trailing your fingers down his temple and scarred chin before you lean in to plant a brief kiss on his lips.

“My pleasure.”

After a few minutes of catching his breath, he rises from the tub. You make no attempt at being subtle as you ardently trace every bulge, nook and cranny of his fit and appealing physique. Taking note of the look in your eyes, he flashes you a self-conscious smile. You help him dry and as he gets dressed, you clean up the water spilled on the floor as a result of your carnal debauchery.

Fully clothed, he drapes a satchel over his shoulder and puts on the black leather hat you’d seen him wear in the reception earlier. The wide brim covers most of his face save from the stubbled jaw and plush lips, giving him an enticing aura of alluring mystique. You absentmindedly let go of the wet towels in your hand, letting them sink into the lukewarm water. It’s time to say goodbye.

 _Really_ say goodbye.

“I want to ask you out. More than anythin’.”

You nod. The yearn in his voice leaves no doubt as to the conflicting emotions raging inside him. “I, eh,” he stutters, wetting his lips, struggling for the right words. Any words. “I’ve-“

You intuitively know you’re far more to him than just a girl who gave him a quick release. But circumstances in his life prevents him from settling down, likely in combination with a feeling of inferiority in regards to be deserving of your affection or a wish to not defile or dishonor you. You place a hand on his arm, tilting your head in search of the teal eyes hidden under the brim of his hat.

“If you feel like you owe me something, you don’t. I’m just glad to have met you.”

A poignant smile spreads across his gorgeous but weathered face. He picks up the bandolier and the belt with the attached holsters. “I ain’t a good man,” he mutters, tracing the metal casings fastened to the tough leather garments one typically associates with gunslingers. “Ain’t the kind of man you need or want in your life.”

He pauses after that, waiting for your response though his eyes remain fixed on the leather belts now all of a sudden so heavy in his hand, as if he’s feeling not only the physical weight of the arms but the emotional burden that follows, the inevitable cost of the life he leads – and the sacrifices that comes with it. You say nothing as your gaze shifts from the firearms to the bandana tied around his neck. A distinct, beak-shaped outline suggests he often wears it over his nose. His face, littered with scars after many an intense fist fight.

You know.

But you do not ask.

You make no comment. You don’t want to have confirmed what you deep down already know, but rather remember him as the man you’ve come to know from your short but precious time together.

“I won’t forget about you, Arthur.” Your voice is wobbly and low, nearly a whisper it’s barely audible over the sound of fading rainfall. Though there are unsaid words in your heart, you refrain from speaking, certain that if you do your voice will break.

Arthur pulls you to his chest, swaying you from side to side he hugs you close, his fingers gliding over your hair. You close out the world, listening to his heartbeat and mirroring his even, heavy breath. You both lose track of time. It’s not until the receptionist knocks on the door that he lets you go, calling out that he’ll be out in a minute, then turning his full attention to you, softly kissing your forehead, nose and then lips. You close your eyes as his lips find yours one last time. When you open them again you are alone. You lean heavily over the bathtub, your head falling forward as your mind cruelly conjures a bittersweet remembrance of how he only moments ago had been sitting right below where you now stand. Rain-filled clouds make way for the sun, whose rays reach you through laced curtains, making the water below you twinkle. As drops of rain stop falling from the sky, drops of tears start streaming from your bloodshot eyes.

~*~

At last, the day for your departure to Saint Denis has arrived. You’ll miss your father for sure but there is no denying a change of scenery will be most welcoming. You’ve just put the last piece of clothing in your already stuffed bag and you are struggling to close it up when you father bursts into your room without knocking, eyes wild.

“My angel, I do not mean to alarm you but I need you to stay in your room until I call.”

“But pa, my train is leaving in less than two hours.”

“I know, angel. I am so sorry for-“ you have never seen your father like this, anxiously looking out every window, his forehead creased and glistening. “He wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow.”

You have no recollection of any pending visitors. Perhaps he’s made arrangements for his brother to come and stay with him for a few days, but why keep that a secret? A foreboding sensation creeps into your chest from the pit of your tummy and clenches your heart like a clammy hand.

“What are you talking about? Who wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow?”

“Do you have your tuition money?”

“Yes, of course. Pa, what is this about? Are we in danger?”

“Whatever you do, whatever you hear, do not come out of this room until I call, okay. Promise me.”

“What-?”

“Lock the door, you hear!”

He offers no more clarity as to the reason for this enigmatic exchange but promptly leaves, closing the door behind him. Something he never does unless asking you first. When little, you always wanted to have the door ajar, and your father acquired the now sometimes peeving habit of leaving it open. You resume preparing for your departure but not without a growing feel of trepidation as you’re pondering what could’ve caused this strange behavior. Your father is a decent, righteous and honest man. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been withholding information or keeping secrets to protect you, or other loved ones. You have an arising suspicion that this sudden acquisition of money might have a more sinister origin than what you’d been told. You are soon to find out just how right you are. About that, and about something else. Or, someone. Less than five minutes later, the front door bursts open. Heavy footsteps not belonging to your father strides across the living room, followed by muffled sounds both from your father and the stranger. You place your ear to the enclosed door.

“Where’s mah money?!”

Your heart start pounding real hard at the sound of the sharp, threatening tone. You hear your father’s voice, thick with fear. “I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t have it. I need more time.”

“There’s no time like right _now_.”

So this is how he’d come into all this money all of a sudden. Money given to you so you could enroll to St. Denis University already this semester. There never was an inheritance, no rich uncle that had suddenly passed away, only a large loan with short payment time from some very shady people. Guilt and regret coarse through you. How could you have been so blind?

“Please, Sir. If you could return tomorrow-"

“If you ain’t got the money now why would tomorrow be any different? I ain’t no fool.”

“Sir-"

An eerie feeling of familiarity and strangeness makes your stomach hurt, and for every word spoken by the stranger it’s as if your organs are twisting in on themselves. There _is_ something familiar about that voice. You feel sick all of a sudden.

“I ain’t the smartest feller around, but I sure as hell ain’t born yesterday either. I come back here tomorrow and you’ll be long gone.”

“No, Sir. I promise- please!”

You’re now certain that you’ve heard that voice before, and recently too, but not when speaking in that tone.

“I’ll squeeze every last cent outta you, even if I have to break every damn bone in yer body. Pay up what you owe, NOW!”

A pained cry of fear reaches you from behind the closed door and you realize with dread that the owner of that strange but familiar voice has gone from verbal attacks to physical ones. No way are you staying in your room any longer! Determined to stop whoever is hurting your father, you disobey him by barging out of your room. A tall and brawny man hovers over your father, one hand clenching his shirt, the other menacingly closed into a fist. He lift his head, revealing a pair of painfully familiar teal eyes under the brim of a tattered leather hat, matching yours in both shock and mortification.


	2. Chapter 2

Deep down, you had known. You _had_ known. But it had been so easy to make up excuses or just close your eyes altogether from the ugly truth. Until you and your family are the ones to suffer. Arthur promptly let go of your father’s shirt and takes two steps back. The frail man falls to the floor and crawls on all four away from his attacker and up to where you are standing. Dumbstruck, you stare at the crimson streaks running down the assailant’s hand. The hand that only a few days ago had been caressing you so fondly is now smeared in your father’s blood. An overwhelming wave of shame and revolt has you nearly throw up. You kneel beside your father, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The blood seeping from his nose makes your eyes burn and you choke down a sob.

“Forgive me, angel,” he cries through gritted, blood-coated teeth. His eyes are wide with fear and remorse. “I just- wanted to secure your future. You should be away from here, at university like you always dreamed. Not working at that place, touching these men…”

Your cheeks go hot and your gaze unwillingly shifts to Arthur. The brim hides his face, making him impossible to read. Your father however, reads you just fine.

“Him _?!_ He is one of them?”

You don’t respond. You’re too mortified, too embarrassed, too hurt. At this moment, you can’t believe you ever found him even the slightest attractive. That you had let him touch you. Shame, anger and disgust course through you as you think of how _you_ had touched him. Kissed him. Pleased him. As much as you try to fight it, tears start streaming down your burning cheeks. Unfortunately for you, your lack of response is all the response your father needs. He turns to Arthur, a burning anger in his marble-round eyes.

“Stay away from her, you hear. You can punish me all you want, but don’t you dare lay your hands on my child!”

The beating from Arthur has his words coming out slurred. The man responsible for the beating turns away, deflated.

“I ain’t gonna touch her.”

You use your shawl to wipe away the blood under his nose. The slightest touch has his face contort in pain even though you are gentle, and with your vision growing more and more hazy, you end up smearing the blood across his face instead. The only sounds you hear are those of your own muffled sobs and your father’s uneven breaths. No footsteps and no creaking of hinges means Arthur’s still in the room, silently watching you, but you rather not think about that now. You’ll deal with him in a moment. Through your foggy vision you notice clear streaks in your father’s blood-smeared face, and you realize it’s your own tears, washing the blood away. You help the battered man to his feet and escort him to the closest chair where he leans over the table, resting his head on his folded, trembling hands. You swipe your hand across your face.

He will be okay. Physically.

“I’ll get you the money,” you say coldly, scowling in Arthur’ direction.  

“No, angel. Please, it’s for your future. Let me-“

“How can I possibly accept this money now?!”

You hadn’t meant to shout. The look of despair in your father’s eyes has you immediately regret your outburst. But you nonetheless stand by your decision. You don’t know by what means he’d intended to pay back this large loan, or even… if he had intended to pay back at all.

_He wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow._

_I come back here tomorrow and you’ll be long gone._

Realization hits you like a blow to the stomach, making your chest ache. Whether he meant to sell the house and his earthy possessions, take the beating or run away, he had every intent to sacrifice his own future in order to secure yours. As admirable or reckless or foolish that might be, depending on who you ask, there is no way you can let him do that. You find the money securely tucked inside your travelling bag after throwing out most of what you had already put in. Eight hundred dollars meant to cover a full year at St. Denis University. You march out to the living room and, despite your father’s protests, throw the money at Arthur’s feet. The debt collector stands idle and apathic for a moment, as if trying to come up with something to say. Failing that objective, he picks up the money and leaves without a word. You turn your back to him the moment the bills leave your hand so you don’t see it but you hear the stretching of fabric, then the sound of paper shifting against paper followed by hinges screeching and a door closing.

You don’t know whether Arthur’s silence has you relieved or distraught. More than what you already are, that is.

You fumble with the shawl still draped around your neck, now littered with dots, streaks and smears in different shades of red. Absentmindedly removing the blood-stained cloth, you go to join your father by the table, but realizing you are only moments away from breaking apart has you hesitate. Not that crying in itself would be unpredicted or questioned after such an event. But the emotional outburst you’re on the verge of is not the distressed sobbing one would expect but rather an _I-am-absolutely-gutted-and-heartbroken_ kind of bawling – and your father indisputably knows you well enough to easily tell the two apart. Moreover, he’d already correctly guessed that Arthur is, or was, a bath house client.

There would be questions.

The type of questions you most certainly do not feel like answering now. Or, ever.

“I’ll go stable the horses.”

You excuse yourself with a sting of guilt as you take one last glance at his hunched back before carefully closing the door behind you to detach the horses from the carriage your father had been preparing while you were packing. You trace the dusty path leading to your little homestead with your eyes until obscured by the forest below the small hillside where you’ve lived all your life. Likely what had happened is that while preparing the carriage your father had seen Arthur on the road below, fretted and rushed inside. One horse free, you take your time leading her towards the stable, your feet sauntering against the ground and kicking away the odd pebble. Closing in on the wide-open stable doors, you lift your head to gaze the forest outline in hopes of catching a tweeting bird or a squirrel bouncing about that could put a smile to your face. But instead you freeze, a sinking dread has your stomach churn. Your hand flies to the mare’s muzzle, making her grunt in surprise.

Arthur _!?_

It is him all right, leaning against the stable wall. You shoot him a piercing glare, making no attempt at hiding the scorn in your eyes. His chin is low, and his face cowardly hidden by the brim.

“You creepin’ on me?”

He lifts his shoulder off the wall and approaches you, ignoring your disdain. He halts right before he’s at what would be considered a normal conversation-distance.

“Told you I wasn’t a good man.”

You remain silent as you head past him and into the stable where you take your time sweet-taking and patting the animal as you stall her, trying to pretend you don’t notice Arthur lingering at the stable entrance, leaned against the wooden frame as he’s waiting for you to return for the stallion. You give the mare a pet, inhaling deeply, then you head back out. Might as well get this over with.

“Did you lend him the money?”

You stop to hear his reply. Behind his shoulder you catch a glimpse of a horse you haven’t seen before. A thoroughbred, you think.

“No, I didn’t. Ain’t the one lending out the money. I’m just the tool who’s stuck with reclaimin’ it.”

He lifts his head, meeting your eyes. Is that remorse? If so, for what? For hurting you? For beating up an innocent man just looking out for his daughter? Or for wasting whatever could’ve been between you? It hardly matter, you tell yourself.

“So, you’re a debt collector?”

A humorless, bitter smile spreads across his lips.

“I’m an outlaw.”

“You are?” You shoot him an overbearing smile, one which does not reach your eyes. “I would have never guessed,” you say with ice-cold disdain, rapidly blinking your eyelids. Your sarcasm has him fuming but he holds his tongue. His indignant look is no match for your spiteful glare. Your mien goes dark again, and you turn to get the second horse.

“I ain't interested in your excuses.”

“I ain’t here for excuses,” you hear behind your back.

You ignore him and carry on detaching the horse and leading him to the stall, although he knows exactly where he is going.

“I mean, I am sorry. But that ain’t why I’m here.”

You, or more precisely the horse you’re escorting, is greeted by the mare with a whinny. You take note of how calm the animals are in Arthur’s presence. They normally don’t like it when someone who is not you or your father is inside the stable building. Under any other circumstance you would have found it endearing. What the outlaw does next however, is impossible to ignore. In his outstretched hand are the dollar bills you’d tossed at his feet.

“Here, take it.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. Emphasizing his words with body gestures, he makes two consecutive nods, affirming what he just said.

“You heard me. Take the money and go.”

“You’re going to just give me money that belongs to - whomever it is that sent you? Just like that?”

“Let me worry ’bout that.”

You glance in the direction of your house, then back at Arthur, scowling.

“I ain’t mean it like that. I ain’t comin’ back here, you have my word. I won’t hurt yer pa. He ain’t ever gonna see me again.”

“Won’t matter,” you shrug. “Whoever lent him the money is just going to send someone else!”

You slam the stall gate shut, scaring the horses. Your tone had been aggressive and higher than usual, adding to the animals unease. You try to calm the stallion but he backs away, steering his muzzle away from your outstretched hand.

“It’s okay boy.”

Your voice is calm again, but it has no effect on the distressed animal. You try again but, despite your best efforts, there is still a bit of edge to your tone.

“Hey, hey, whoa easy there. Eeeeasy.”

You want to tell Arthur to back off, but the instant effect has you hold your tongue. The stallion immediately stops trampling his hooves, and squeals and grunts turns to huffs and snorts instead. Arthur reaches out for the animal, luring him in with his voice and gestures.

“Easy boy, is all right. C’mere.”

Who would’ve thought a voice so gruff could be so heartening? Almost entirely calmed, the stallion approaches Arthur to rest his muzzle in his big hands, making soft grunts in response to the outlaw’s lulling voice and gentle pats. The mare behind you has also calmed down. You hate how the sight, in combination with Arthur’s soothing tone stirs something in you, something warm - and tender.

Affection?

No, it can’t be.

Arthur gives the now calmed stallion one final pat before turning his attention back at you, retrieving the dollar bills from his satchel. A jolt spears your chest as he locks eyes with you.

“I’ll make sure we get our money without you havin’ to worry ’bout your pa.”

You cross your arms to show you still have no intention of accepting his offer. “You’re gonna rob some poor bastard instead, is that it?”

“I promise ya, I ain’t gonna rob or steal from anyone. I’ll find a way to get the money without anyone gettin’ hurt.”

“It’s still a _no thanks_.”

“Please. Take it!” There is an edge to his voice, telling you he’s about to run out of patience and the next time he speaks, it’s with persistent determination and a tone indicating he’s not going to back down. “Don’t forgive me, don’t thank me, just - take it. This’ yer chance to live out yer dream. Chances like this don’t come ’round often. Whatever is stoppin’ ya, pride, me, yer pa, don’t let it ruin it for ya.”

You don’t want to pander to his attempt at pardon. It’s not to you he should redeem himself. But on the other hand, if you don’t leave today, you won’t get another chance at enrolling until next year, money or not.

“Doesn’t matter,” you snap. “I am not leaving pa. Not now.”

“It’s what he wants.”

Those four words hit you like a blow to the stomach, and your throat thickens. The train for Saint Denis leaves in only half an hour. Overwhelmed by the cruel realization of speedy decision, you choke down a sob.

“He did this for you,” Arthur reminds, flapping the bills in his hand to emphasize his words. “He borrowed money from _us_. He already knew he ain’t gonna be able to pay us back, and I woulda- don’t let this be for nothin’, ya hear?”

Your eyes start burning again. Your hand flies to your mouth and you clutch your palm over your lips to muffle out the sobs arising from deep within your aching chest. You know he’s right. This _is_ what he wants for you. So much that he’d been willing to risk everything for you, even his own life. That can’t be for nothing. Without another word you snatch the bills out of Arthur’s hand, shooting him daggers of resentment as you whisk past him on your way back to the cottage.

“I’ll take you to the station,” you hear behind you.

“The hell you are,” you sneer without turning your head.

“I don’t want you ridin’ through town all alone with all this money.”

This time, you turn around, half facing him, half facing the cottage where you are headed. “I don’t give two cents what you want or don’t want.”

He gestures to the building which you are about to enter. “What about what he wants?”

“Not for me to spend any more time with you, that’s for sure.”

“He’d want you to be safe.”

There is no retaliation to that. Moreover, with the time it will take you to talk to your father and repack you bag there won’t be enough time to prepare the wagon or saddle up any of the horses.

“Fine,” you agree, deflated. Arthur whistles for the mare grassing over at the forest outline.

“Go get yer stuff. I be waitin’.”

You say a quick but teary goodbye to your father with a promise to write to him as soon as you’ve arrived and leave him some money so he can come visit you. It pains you to leave him like this, eyes silently asking how and why, however there is no time to even attempt a proper explanation.

As you exit the cottage, Arthur’s already in the saddle. He reaches out his hand to you.

“C’mere. I’ll help you.”

Seeing no other way to mount the horse, you reluctantly accept. The ride to the train station is silent and awkward. You refuse to lay your hands on him, instead holding onto the saddle although when he puts his steed into a gallop you have no choice but to grab on to his back lest you fall off. He occasionally throws you a side glance, asking if you are okay back there. You offer no response.

At the train station, he gets off first and reaches out to you. Deciding it’s not worth risk twisting an ankle, you swallow your pride and once again accept his outstretched hand. Thanks to the turmoil of emotions that’s been coursing through you over the last hour, your legs give in when your feet touch the ground and you fall straight into Arthur’s arms where you remain frozen for about two seconds before twisting free and pushing him away. He takes your bag and follows you into the station where you buy your ticket and head out on the platform to the waiting train. You glance up at the station clock. Five minutes to departure.

“Here, take this. To settle down when you arrive.”

You stare at the bills in his hand. It is quite a lot. More than enough to sustain yourself for months. “I don’t need your money,” you retort. “I have family I can stay with.”

“Take it anyway. You might need it.”

“Well, I don’t want it.”

“You despise me, I get it. You can hate me all you want, but for yer own sake, take it.”

You glare at him.

“I told ya, I ain’t looking for forgiveness. From what I’ve heard, Saint Denis is a big, expensive’n unfriendly place. I just want to make sure you can provide for yourself.”

Once again, you reluctantly have to admit that he’s right. With the money you left for your father, there is little left for food, clothes or medicine should you need it. You did plan on finding a job, but - you reluctantly accept the money.

“I’ll find a way to pay you back,” you vow. “You know where to find me.”

Not even a wide brim can hide his disgruntled face.

You know you should say something. To get some kind of closure if nothing else. Yet, you can’t produce a single word as you fear any attempt at speaking would render you a bawling, incoherent mess. So you stay quiet, effectively giving a cold shoulder at Arthur’s petty attempts at rectification or atonement. A shrill sound cuts through the air. The conductor’s whistle signaling the train’s imminent departure. You close your hand around the metal handrail.

“It might be wise of you to moderate your approach to wine.”

“That was uncalled for,” you reply frostily, accepting your bag with yet another spiteful glare.

“You know I ain’t mean it like that. I want you to be safe.”

“Just shut your mouth!”

With that, you turn your back to him and board the train. No thanks, no goodbye. No nothing. With a heavy chest he lets you go, knowing very well he deserves your scorn. Yet it hurts. When affection turns to resent. Lust turns to disgust. It hurts. He knew so well how it would end. How it always ends. But he had not been able to stop himself from enjoying your touch. Your kind words and beautiful smile. The warmth in your eyes. You had stirred something in him, something he had thought of as long dead and forgotten. Even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, he had dared to hope. A faint hope that maybe this time, it would end different. Not happy, but at least different. Now he feels like a fool as he watches the train leave the station, following it with his eyes until obscured by distance before he sits down against the station wall, pulling out his journal.

You plump down on the nearest available seat that has a window facing away from the platform. Gritting your eyelids shut, you close out the world and try to convince yourself that you feel nothing for this man other than loath and disgust, ignoring that bursting ache in your chest suggesting otherwise. Pretending that the warmth from his hands when he’d caught you stumbling off his horse isn’t still there, lingering on your skin. He had beaten your father. Even when the frail, elderly man had been begging for mercy, he had still beaten him. Threatened to kill him. There is no forgiveness. There is no repent.

As the train leaves the station, you break down in tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 is up!
> 
> Thank you to everyone commenting. I am truly delighted to see your reactions.


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